Paper Bullets of the Mind
by smiththefifth
Summary: Troy and Ryan have nothing in common except French class and the notion that love sucks balls. But with the help of the Bard they just might get it together. A love story written in silence.
1. They

**a/n **ohmigosh this fandom is so 2008. whatever.

so there's this kid jacob and i've been trying to write troy/ryan slash since i happened upon his hsm stories a year ago. but then he quit writing fanfiction cos he's like a proper writer now. ah, well. you live you learn. after a year of throwing things at the wall something has finally stuck. but here's the thing. i'm not all that invested in this and if no one is reading it (as it is no longer 2008) i'm not going to bother, ya know? so if you're into it let me know. that would be pretty awesome.

and okay. is anyone else watching lucas grabeel in _switched at birth_? so freaking good. and he talks about testicles. i'm such a fanboy.

**warnings **slash, use of the french language without accents (i am quite lazy), mind games, shakespeare, mild language

**Paper Bullets of the Mind - They**

"I'm finding I'm somewhat different these days  
>tired of cliches, tired of old wives tales<br>there's not an aphorism made that can hold me back  
>why won't you hold me back like you used to do?"<p>

- Tom Milsom "They"

"Tu es…" Troy stumbles over the words while his brain decides against supplying a noun. "Tu es un sac a douche," he says, triumphant.

"You are aware that you just called me a shower bag, oui?" Ryan shoots back.

"Shut up," Troy replies, scouring his French textbook.

"Tais toi," Ryan corrects softly.

"French is useless. I'm never going to France anyway." Troy puts on a spectacular glare and slams his book shut as if it has personally offended him. And maybe it has.

"C'est nul," Ryan corrects again, and sticks his tongue out for good measure. "You never know. Maybe one day you will be a famous NBA all star player and you have to travel to France for a tournament or an endorsement deal or…" Ryan trails off. He's only joking because knows better than to think Troy is even remotely interested in what he's saying.

"Or for fashion week," Troy responds with a shrug. Ryan raises his eyebrows but doesn't have to ask. "'Cos, ya know, hot girls, or whatever." His cheeks are stained with an unmistakable blush which is very cute, Ryan thinks.

"Of course," he agrees, "Tu as raison."

"Huh?" Troy says eloquently.

"You really are quite bad at this," Ryan concedes, since that was Troy's initial premise. In retaliation Troy crinkles the worksheet into a ball and tosses it at Ryan's head.

Ryan isn't supposed to be in Troy's beginning French class; he takes French IV after lunch. He had a free period in the middle of the day and Madame Lucie needed a student aide. The class is full of freshman, including the overeager Jimmie, so Ryan steps in as his partner for conversation exercises.

To save him from the freshman, of course.

Not because he's fascinated with the talented Adonis in front of him or his bizarre, exotic jock world. No.

"So what are you doing this weekend?" Troy asks, opening his book and refocusing his efforts. He is a good student, really.

"Qu'est-ce que tu fais pour le week-end?" Ryan translates back, assuming Troy is asking for help with the assignment.

"No, seriously." Troy laughs at the miscommunication, looks like he's about to smack Ryan on the shoulder like he would a real friend but refrains.

"Oh." Ryan considers the question. "Nothing really." It's depressing but that's the truth. "Sharpay wants us to do some dance workshop over in Santa Fe but I doubt our parents will let us."

"Why not?" Is he really interested or is he just avoiding French? Ryan can never tell.

"She's failing pre calc." Troy closes his book again and tosses it to the side.

"Ouch."

"I didn't want to go," Ryan finds himself saying. Troy just nods; dance class is not his thing. At a loss for what to say next Ryan reciprocates, asking what Troy is doing this weekend.

"Same old, same old. Hanging out with the guys, golf practice. There's a party tonight but Gabi's gonna be there so I probably shouldn't be." Oh right, Ryan had heard that East High's power couple parted ways over the summer but he isn't one to listen to gossip. They seem perfect for each other. The news shocks him.

"Sorry to hear about your break up," Ryan tries awkwardly. This is a tad too personal for their entirely impersonal relationship.

"It's all good, dude. For the best or whatever," Troy promises. He seems just as awkward which is comforting. "Besides," he continues, "love sucks, it sucks dirty balls." Troy stretches lazily like it's no big deal but Ryan can hear the anger behind the words. He's fluent in subtext.

"Balls," Ryan agrees. "I-ran-ten-miles-in-skin-tight-pleather dirty balls." Thankfully, this elicits a snort and a chuckle from his French partner. "What are you doing instead?" Ryan inquires further.

Troy opens his mouth to answer but Lucie calls the class to attention before he can. The two exchange and eye roll at Madame's excessive enthusiasm before Ryan returns to his spot at the back of the classroom.

This is how it is between them: tentative friends inside the walls of classroom 204, strangers once the bell rings. Senior year started over a month ago and nothing has changed. Sometimes they dance around the topic of hanging out "or something" but nothing sticks. After the way his twin treated Troy and his friends over the summer he isn't surprised.

Fifty minutes a day is fine with him anyway.

"Je suis stupide," Troy says with a dramatic sigh. Five minutes before the bell and he's standing at Ryan's desk at the back of the room. The freshman huddle at the door like sheep.

"Need help?" Ryan asks almost impishly. Troy nods and Ryan translates the homework instructions. Their fingers brush against each other when he hands the paper back and electricity jolts down Ryan's spine. Maybe Troy felt it too because instead of gushing thanks like usual he just stares at the floor and the speckled tile design.

Saved by the bell, Troy rushes off to his jock table while Ryan finds solace in the theatre annex. Communications cease until Monday morning. Ryan has always liked routine.

* * *

><p>Ryan presses the white earbuds of his headphones further into his ears but it doesn't help. Still, the screaming coming from downstairs permeates his brain. Once again, his parents have said no to one of Sharpay's many demands and she isn't taking it very well.<p>

His Top 40 playlist muffles the individual sounds which is nice but the white noise still annoys him. The argument is always the same and Ryan could probably repeat it verbatim. Sharpay has never been a good student or good with the word no. To make matters worse her lung capacity is only rivalled by that of their mother's.

Being at home is fun.

To kill time he logs onto Facebook and scrolls through the wall posts. Nothing is happening, it never is. That so many people find it necessary to publicize their miserable lives baffles him. He has hundreds of virtual friends but he's still alone. Surely he can't be the only one to realize this.

Suddenly a friend request pops up. Troy Bolton would like to be his friend. Automatically he clicks the confirm button.

He clicks onto his own profile to make sure nothing offensive stands out, nothing that could ruin their fragile almost-friendship more than his existence already does.

The profile picture is from drama camp last summer; it's one of the few times he wasn't decked out in pink or gold to match his sister. In jeans and a t-shirt he looks completely casual and non-offensive. He likes Shakespeare plays, Sofia Coppola movies and Broadway soundtracks, there's nothing he can change about that.

His bio says next to nothing, so no worries there. Rarely does he post anything on his wall or anyone else's, good. There is only one glaring problem.

Interested in: Men.

It isn't as though no one knows. He's been "out" since his junior year but most people of Troy's status don't care enough about him to notice. Maybe that's why Troy still talks to him.

Then he remembers that he doesn't care. If it bothers him their friendship wasn't going to get very far anyway. Before cynical outrage can fully take shape Troy instant messages him.

_Hey_, it says. Ryan exhales a long, shaky breath.

_Hey yourself_, he types and hits enter. Was that too forward? He hopes Troy doesn't think that was flirting. Dear god.

_How's it goin? _It doesn't take a neurosurgeon to know that Troy doesn't really want to know 'how it is going' for Ryan. Sucky, if he's being honest.

_Really great, _he lies sarcastically, _what about you? _

_Not so great_, Troy types. The sentiment is punctuated by an emoticon hieroglyphic; colon end parenthesis.

_Oh no, what's wrong?_ Ryan looks away from the screen when he hears footsteps stomping up the stairs. And his night was going so well.

"Ryan!" Sharpay screeches, throwing open his bedroom door. "Talk to mother!" She grabs his hand and drags him down the stairs.

"You love Ryan," Sharpay whines. "You would say yes to him, wouldn't you?" she says accusingly. Sweet to sour in two-point-five.

"Ryan doesn't fail his math tests even when we hire very expensive math tutors for him!" Actually Ryan doesn't need a math tutor. He's very good with numbers. Much to his twin's dismay.

The screaming match from earlier continues but now Ryan has a front row seat. Not that he asked for it. He's more of an example, a totem, than a participating party here. He wishes he could go back upstairs. But when he tries to make his escape angry claws pull him back to his doom.

Their father, who was avoiding the fight in his office, finally comes out to end the racket as it is interrupting his work. Sharpay still can't go and she's grounded for the rest of the night. How utterly terrifying but at least Ryan is free to return to his room.

Twelve messages from Troy since he left, he feels oddly accomplished. All of Troy's friends went to that party and left him alone for the night. He feels alone and sad.

Is Ryan there?

Hello?

What, he's not allowed to complain?

Come on. It's not that bad.

Will Ryan answer if he complains in French?

Et cetera.

Ryan is touched though he reminds himself it's only because all of Troy's real friends are busy.

_Sorry, Sharpay needed me. And sorry your friends left you alone. _

_At least I still have you. _

_Always. _The sentiment feels too serious, too quickly so Ryan adds a funny happy face involving the letter 'P' to make it more lighthearted. He contemplates adding an 'lol' but that would be too much, he decides.

Their conversation continues well into the wee hours of the morning even though they don't really talk about anything. When two people hardly know each other the conversation can run on angst and small talk alone. Around three they both decide it's time to call it a night.

Ryan can't remember the last time he had a better one.

* * *

><p>Although they Evans Twins are not allowed to go to Santa Fe this weekend it's still Saturday and that means they will spend a good five hours at the dance studio. Their Saturdays have been reserved for dance rehearsal for as long as either of them can remember. Still, little dramas plague their morning.<p>

After four hours of sleep Ryan rolls out of bed, exhausted. Not even coffee and a cold shower rouse him so he stumbles through the morning half asleep. Sharpay can't find her pointe shoes, the tan ones for recital. They are out of yogurt and carrots so they leave the house starving. Sharpay forgot to put gas in her car and feigns a panic attack because the car is obviously going to blow up halfway there.

Not that he's a mechanics expert but Ryan is fairly certain that what she is suggesting is a physical impossibility.

Ryan drives so Sharpay can continue her mental episode in the back. She finds the missing shoes under the seat.

Even with all the fuss they are a good fifteen minutes early. Younger students scatter as the Evans twins make their entrance. Ryan is instantly accosted by Becca and Emily and dragged off to gossip. Sharpay disappears into the dressing room to collect her own posse.

This place is practically Ryan's second home. He loves the polished hardwood floors, the wall to wall mirrors and the metal bar that circles the room. He even loves the humid stench of sweat and feet mixed with the sweet tang of hairspray. The Sawyer School of Dance, the one place he isn't consumed with self-doubt and the need to fit in. This is where he belongs.

Becca and Emily chat about the director's daughter Juliet, they hear she has her own show on Broadway now. Ryan laughs because he knows it isn't true and focuses on elastic of his ballet shoes.

"Ohmigosh, she's only like, ten though. What about school and stuff? Do you think she's, like, getting paid for it? Like paid to dance, wow." Becca is a little dim, even by Ryan's standards and he wishes she would shut up. He's almost certain that Juliet or her mother or one of the members of her massive extended family is somewhere in their general vicinity.

"No okay, it's like on Disney. They have personal tutors and stuff. Right, Ryan?" His mother was on Broadway so if anyone would know it would be him. He just shrugs, too exhausted to deal with this.

"But like, she was here all summer. For the modeling workshop?" Becca seems very confused. Ryan needs coffee.

"It's just what I heard, Becca. Geez, I'm not like, a Juliet expert or anything." There is a bit of resentment in this statement. Juliet used to idolize Emily when she was younger. Then she grew up, became a ballet prodigy and didn't need Juliet to carry her around anymore.

"If anyone deserves it it's totally her. Have you seen her? It's like she has no bones at all. Pure rubber or something."

"Everyone has seen her," Emily huffs. Ryan extends his legs in front of himself and forces his nose to his knees in an effort to block out their conversation. It isn't working.

"Juliet Sawyer does not have her own show," Sharpay snaps, sashaying toward them. "Now disperse," she demands with a wave of her hand. The two girls squeak disapproval but lope off anyway. Ryan groans and rolls his neck.

"Rude much?" With a loud _thwack_ a water bottle collides with Ryan's shoulder. He's torn between nursing the wound and guzzling the offered beverage.

"Drink," Sharpay decides for him. "You look awful." And he feels awful. Lack of sleep coupled with nausea and dehydration. "We do not function well on weird sleeping patterns," Sharpay says, voicing his exact thoughts. "What kept you up so late?"

Ryan shrugs. For one reason or another the truth would displease her. A lot. And that is not something he can deal with right now. "School?"

"Whatever. Liar." Before they can get too far into the is-he-isn't-he conversation their instructor Miss Stephanie calls them into class. Sharpay goes in first, taking her usual spot at the front of the bar. Ryan files in with Becca and Emily where they take their place in the corner of the room.

This class, their life at the studio could almost be a metaphor for their declining relationship, Ryan thinks distractedly. Before the thought gets too much traction bland piano music pipes up and Miss Stephanie is barking directions.

"We'll start with plies, ladies and gentlemen." Why she needs to tell them this is beyond Ryan, they start the same way every class. He sighs. "First position, demi and stretch, demi and stretch. Full grande plie and return. Port de brah forward, port de brah back. The same in first, second, third and fifth. Sharpay, would you demonstrate?"

"Not with that stick up her ass," Emily hisses in his ear. The three of them snort to hide laughter.

"Something to say, Emily?" Miss Stephanie asks, pausing the music. In tandem, twenty heads whip around to stare at them. It's slightly unnerving.

Becca shakes her head frantically. "No, ma'am." Miss Stephanie and Sharpay share matching glares. Evil glares, with the promise of a truly gruelling two hours. As the music starts back up Ryan glances at the clock. Four hours fifty-five minutes left.

After ballet boot camp his day is a downhill slide.

It isn't that he hates ballet but it's clearly Sharpay's thing. She is, after all, built for it with her long extremities and manic energy. By contrast Ryan is better suited for modern and has a talent for tap. Also, he is always happy to put healthy distance between himself and his overbearing sister.

Speaking of which, class is finally over and she is making her way towards him, obviously furious for some reason or another.

"Do you have practice for The Battle today?" she snaps. Oh. That's why. Ryan had been cast in this years big competition number and Sharpay had not. She is accepting it with the grace and humility for which she is known.

"Um, no. Thursdays." Sharpay flicks an imaginary hair, as her real hair is pulled back in a bun. Of course she knew that already, having been in several similar competition numbers in years past. It is another one of her useless power plays meant to show him how insignificant it is, he is.

This isn't how he wants to spend his time, tied up in mind games that don't matter. He calculates what to say next, what will get him what he wants without her knowing he's getting it.

"Well now you know," is passive and Sharpay would see it as a victory.

"It's the same as last week and the week before that," would make him sound whiney, like he needs her to remember.

"You've been in it before," commits him to the game she's trying to play.

"You'd know if you were in it," is just mean and opens the door for her to fight back. Ryan doesn't need the headache.

Finally he settles for a shrug and a mumbled "yeah," as he digs around in his colossal bag for the right tap shoes. It doesn't take long for her to get bored and wonder off. Ryan continues to stare, determined, into his bag until he's sure she's gone.

"Tu es un sac a douche," he mumbles under his breath, allowing the silly insult now that she's gone. He loves that he has an inside joke with someone who isn't his twin no matter how one sided it is. His amusement is a great distraction from certain other angry people.

Eventually he looks up to see said angry person holding court with Courtney and Amanda Rose, two of her ballet diva friends. They leave the studio, probably for the Starbucks up the street. Ryan's stomach churns with jealousy. Unlike them he actually has another class and can't run off at the first sign of caffeine withdrawal.

Whatever. He cracks the top of his water bottle and lets the cold liquid fill his mouth. Endorphins pumping, he's almost positive that he can barrel though the exhaustion and make it the rest of the day. He pulls his tap shoes on and clips his way down the hall.

Only three hours left.


	2. Vigilante

**a/n **i love first chapters, they are so ripe with possibility. it's second chapters that irritate me. plot has always been my weakness, forgive me. in the interest of full disclosure, i live in albuquerque and i went to ehs. so everything in this story will be geographically accurate. other than that, critique is always appreciated and i hope i'm not mucking this up too much.

**Paper Bullets of the Mind – Vigilante**

"The sun comes up and I'm alone  
>and the world rests peacefully,<br>their thankless eyes are my first-rate prize  
>I'm a vigilante."<p>

-Lucas Grabeel "Vigilante"

There is nothing worse than waking up from a nap in the middle of the night. Ryan is groggy and his limbs are made of lead. His clothes twist awkwardly, waterlogged with sweat. As much as he needs it, he's loathe to take a shower for fear of waking up the whole house.

Instead he strips off the t-shirt and leggings he fell asleep in and pulls on a new pair of boxers. Better, but still not great. The discomfort leaves him grumpy.

He goes to switch on the TV only to realize that it isn't there anymore. It was recently moved down the hall after a fight between Sharpay and their parents. Ryan can't recall exact details but he distinctly remembers the word Comcast being thrown around a lot.

As retribution the TV sets in both his room and hers were relocated; his to the guest room and hers to the downstairs entertainment room. Only their MacBooks, iPods, Smartphones and dozens of other electronic devices remain to keep them warm at night.

Ryan doesn't think his parents really get punishment.

Alternatively he opens his laptop and scrolls through the downloaded movies. _Cabaret_, he chooses it in hope that it will cheer him up because if any movie could, it would be this one. In his expert opinion there has never been a more perfect work committed to film. He double clicks the icon and runs to the bathroom while it loads.

When he returns he notices that the Facebook tab from last night is still open. He hates when he does that; it feels very disorganized and leaves him with dozens of unanswered chats. In his social circle this constitutes as a major slight and creates more grudges than it's worth. With a frustrated huff he goes to click off, but a bright number one in the corner calls out to him like a beacon. He has a message.

It's from Kelsi, which is weird. Last spring Kelsi leveled a direct assault on Sharpay by running for drama club president. She lost of course but has since been appointed vice president. It's very 1789 with more mutiny and monologues. This either makes them enemies by proxy or friends united against a common force. He's not sure which.

_Dear Ryan,_ it reads. The formality amuses him. Is she not aware that this is Facebook?

_As drama club co-president I'm sure you have already received and considered Mrs. Darbus' email from earlier today. Personally, I think it's an atrocious idea and undermines everything we've been working toward. With your permission I will speak to her on behalf of the board as early as breakfast tomorrow. As we all know, Mrs Darbus can let insane ideas get away with her and I think it would be best for the drama department to nip this in the bud. Please let me know right away. _

_Sincerely, _

_Kelsi_

Well isn't that just perfect.

Darbus has gone bonkers, Kelsi is channeling her inner Karl Marx and he's about to be caught in the middle. The only saving grace is that Sharpay probably hasn't seen Email Zero. If she had she would have gone apoplectic and his nap would have been history.

Before the situation can get out of hand, as things involving drama students tend to do, he goes into damage control mode. He replies to Kelsi's email telling her to chill her jets until Monday's meeting and opens his Gmail account to see what Darbus said that has the VP in such a tizzy.

The subject line reads "A New and Exciting Idea to Stimulate the Minds of Students and Saturate the Hallowed Halls of our Theatre." Well if this isn't a good thing coming he doesn't know what is.

Against better judgement, he opens it.

_Ryan Darling! _Oh God.

_As you know it is about time we start gearing up for our Fall Musicale! And what an exciting time it is! After our Winter Musicale last year I am positive that we can expect a reprise of the same excitement and enthusiasm for the theatre. _

Ryan starts to see a problem here. The only reason their winter production attracted the mass amount of attention it did was because of the participation of one Troy Bolton. And as far as Ryan knows Troy isn't interested in any kind of reprise. But Darbus continues.

_Instead of another original Musicale written and composed by our modest department I think it is high time we expand our borders. Darling, I am talking about performing not only a famous classic but a traditional play by the King of the Theatre himself._

_We will discuss this matter in detail come Monday but as you are the co president for the second year running I feel it is important to notify you in advance. If you have questions or comments feel free to write me post haste. The internet is such a lovely contraption don't you think? _

_TTFN as the kids say,  
><em>_Daphne Darbus_

Ryan can see why Kelsi is so gung-ho about reversing this decision. If they do a straight play there is no need for one of her compositions and her role as a musician becomes obsolete. Poor girl, he feels her pain. But for this he's willing to make the sacrifice.

Just as he's about to hit reply and remind Darbus what a good idea it is to return to their roots as thespians he hears a loud crash coming from the floor below him. Maybe Sharpay has seen the email, he thinks, and she's having a nuclear meltdown in the kitchen. Best to leave it, then.

He waits for a few minutes but there's no screeching, screaming, smashing or noise of any kind that would indicate the decimation of their kitchen. He decides to investigate.

The staircase squeaks something terrible but Ryan flies down like a ninja. Creaking staircases are child's play once you spend an entire night pressing every key on a grand piano without making a sound. Which Ryan has done. Twice.

He creeps over to where the noise is coming from, moving slowly as if approaching a rabid animal. It doesn't escape him that a rabid animal would probably be safer because he could trade a liver treat for his life or something. With Sharpay he doubts that he will be so lucky. She's like the Hulk in pink Prada pumps, making her infinitely more dangerous.

Craning his neck around the corner he sees that it isn't Sharpay on a rampage. It's his mother.

And her European luggage set.

"Mom?" he calls, rounding the corner to face her. The crash of china against hardwood floor and the ensuing string of expletives answers him. Ryan is equal parts confused and relieved by her presence here.

Comically, his mother's eyes threaten to expel themselves from their sockets at the sight of him so much so that it takes her a minute to recover. It takes effort for him not to fall to the floor laughing. Finally she gets it together and says, "Ryan, you're supposed to be asleep."

"I woke up," he answers.

"Go back to sleep, Ducky," she coaxes. He cocks his head to the side.

"You're going to send Cindy Lou back to bed without so much as a glass of water?" He walks over and pulls out a stool to sit on. "What's all this?" he asks of the mountain of luggage waiting by the door.

"I'm going on a trip, Ducky," she says over her shoulder as she hurries to the hall closet for a broom and dustpan. This show of housewifery is alarmingly out of character. Ryan honestly can't remember the last time he saw her clean anything.

It takes her a very long time, longer than it should really take to sweep ceramic off a hardwood floor. But he supposes she is quite out of practice. To pass the time he sings "The Telephone Hour" under his breath until she snaps at him to stop.

"So where are you going?" he asks innocently enough. She glares in return and Ryan sees that her eyes are violently bloodshot. Maybe he wasn't so far off with his rabid animal assumption.

"Sorry," he whispers. There's something about the suddenly tense atmosphere that makes it hard to speak at regular volumes. Inside the relief from earlier is quickly dissipating, replaced by more confusion and ominous dread.

His mother, on the other hand, now seems infinitely perplexed by the complicated apparatus that is the toaster oven. She stares at it, unblinking. "Er, do you want toast?" Ryan asks hesitantly.

He hops off the stool and rummages around the pantry for the Wonderbread he knows is in there somewhere. He pulls it out with a triumphant "Aha!" and tosses a few slices into the oven his mother is still staring at. This isn't the kind of thing he usually eats but for his mom he's willing to make the sacrifice.

The coffee is, as always, freshly brewed so Ryan pulls down two cups and fills them with the heavenly black liquid. The toaster bings, the door is opened, the bread decorated with Nutella and distributed. Seconds tick by as he waits for an expination.

"I'm going to Paris," she says finally, biting into her toast and sighing in delight. This isn't the kind of thing she normally eats either. Maybe it's congenital.

"And when are you coming back?" Last second trips aren't uncommon in this family and Ryan takes the announcement in stride.

"I'm staying with Elodie Ceylan," she says as if Ryan should know who this is. He doesn't. They fall back into awkward silence.

"Did Sharpay tell you that we're doing a classical play for our fall production?" Ryan asks, fighting the uphill battle of disjointed conversation.

"No. No, she didn't. I've been out most of the day. I'm sorry, Ducky." She stares hard at the bottom of her now empty cup. Ryan drains the rest of his and stares out the kitchen window. Conversations with his mother don't usually go this way. Something is going on but he pastes a Broadway smile on his face and keeps fighting.

"You don't have to apologize, Mom. I mean, she probably hasn't even read the email about it yet. If she had I'm sure she would have come unglued and woken me up so she would have an audience for her glorious rampage. But I'm sure I'll get an ear full today once she's up. Gosh, what time is it even?" Derby stares back at him with a blank expression. This is definitely not going as planned.

Nothing more is said until the blaring horn of a taxi calls from the driveway. Derby rises to answer the door, ushering a strange man inside and instructing him as to which bags belong in the trunk and which should be kept in backseat with her.

Ryan just stares.

It's only been five minutes since her announcement but suddenly it feels like much longer. "I'm going to Paris," is a casual collection of syllables which can be taken to mean any length of time. But now he sees; the mountains of luggage this trip indicate that this is not a short vacation. Even factoring in the Evans family aversion to packing light, this is a few months at the least, possibly even a one way ticket situation. Something is definitely wrong.

Ryan just stares.

"Mommy," he croaks. He can feel the waterfall of hot tears rolling down his cheeks. It feels like the air has been vacuumed out of the room; he can't even hear himself cry. He's frozen, watching his mother traipse off to Europe and out of his life.

"I'm so sorry, Ducky," his mother is saying. She brushes her hand across his cheek, smearing the tears so they drip down his neck. "Be fabulous for Mommy, okay?" Suddenly he's five years old again and justs wants to scream and cry and let his mother hold him.

Before he can say any of that, or even catch his breath, she disappears and the door swings shut. Her Channel No. 5 lingers in the air, overpowering the strong scent of ground coffee. In French there's a name for this phenomenon.

_Sillage_.

It smells like regret and loneliness.

* * *

><p>For the second time that day Ryan wakes up feeling dazed and confused. Somehow he is back in his bedroom but he can't remember making the trip. The blankets are damp under his nearly naked body and he feels sticky. Sleep, he decides, is not his friend.<p>

Somewhere to his right the most annoying noise is playing on repeat. It takes a while but he slowly comes to the conclusion that it's his cell phone. Convinced it's his mother, he scrambles to answer.

"Hello? Mom?" He's almost hyperventilating and his heart is hammering in his throat.

"Er, no?" the voice is young and distinctly male.

"Who is this?" he demands.

"Troy? Troy Bolton?" Oh great, just what he needs. He doesn't know why Troy would be calling him nor does he know how the boy got his number. All he knows is that every cell in his body is demanding he crawl back to bed and spend some quality time wallowing in self-pity.

"Are you asking me or telling me? I don't have time for this." He's angry, his words leave an acidic tang in his mouth. But maybe that's just the post-nap morning mouth.

What time is it anyway?

"Telling you, dude. Sorry. Is this a bad time? Your number is on Facebook and I needed, um, help I guess."

"With what?" For some reason he doesn't enunciate this as calmly as he planned. But it's probably French homework and he doesn't think he can handle that right now. The stupid language that took his mother away, he never wants to hear it again.

"You have a car, right? Or do you just shotgun with Sharpay?" The fuzziness is starting to fade, his messy room and the desperation in Troy's voice coming into focus all at once. It makes him dizzy and he thinks he needs to sit down.

"I don't think that verb works in that particular context. But whatever, yeah. I have a car."

"Can you pick me up?" Ryan is thankful for the distraction from the monotony of misery and nausea, even if his tone isn't conveying this sentiment.

He nods, realizes that Troy can't see him and finally answers that yes, he can. Troy texts him the address. It is only once he has the directions pulled up on Google Maps that he notices that it's been roughly 36 hours since he last showered.

This presents a problem.

In his cranky, snoozy mindset, there are a few things he's quite certain of. First, he smells faintly of body odor and sweat socks. Second, Troy Bolton is waiting for him on what is most likely the side of the road. And third, he is almost positive that this is a dream. After much deliberation he decides to shower and that Dream Troy will just have to wait.

As the cold water pours over him he wonders if this is what playing hard to get feels like.

* * *

><p>The Troy he spoke to on the phone sounded loopy, sure, but he also sounded coherent and awake.<p>

The Troy he finds on the pavement in front of the grocery store is neither.

"Troy," Ryan says, apprehensive. He gives the boy a good poke in the side. Troy grumbles and swats at the offending finger.

"Troy," Ryan says again. This time there is no response. He punches him in the shoulder in a way that is not entirely different from the way Troy has almost done to him on several occasions. But it is possible that it hurt Ryan's fist more than Troy's shoulder. Who knew he was so built?

"Great, just great," Ryan finds himself seething. "I come all the way down here because I think 'hey, helping the great Troy Bolton has got to be better than sitting here feeling miserable and sorry for myself' but no. Because now not only do I feel miserable and sorry for myself but you aren't even awake. And it's cold. And my hand hurts. And it's _late_." He feels himself teetering on the edge of tears, and he lets out a shriek of unadulterated anger.

"I don't even know what time it is!" he cries, and it's true. He must have passed a million clocks between his room and here but he hasn't bothered to look, not since dance class yesterday.

Even after the outburst Lunkhead Basketball Boy is miraculously still asleep. At least he didn't actually hear Ryan's dramatic outpour. Small favors. He slides down to sit next to Troy and digs his fingers into his messy, still-wet hair.

"I'm not carrying you to the car," he promises stubbornly, glaring at the limp body to his right.

It doesn't take long for his butt to start aching. He's done quite a bit of sitting and sleeping recently. He pokes Troy once more just to make sure he's really asleep before getting up and performing a string of pirouettes around the empty parking lot.

The rapid succession of turns quickly melts into a familiar combination.

Prepare, pas de bourree, glissade, assemble. After several repetitions he finds himself on the other side of the parking lot. A series of leaps and pique turns gets him back to where he started.

Sweat is dripping off him but he feels better now, energized and not as mopey or broken.

He leans up against the wall Troy is sleeping against and lets himself slide down into a crouch. "My mom left tonight," he finds himself saying. It's not like Troy can hear him, so he might as well dish. "I guess it was only a matter of time. She and my dad don't really get along anymore. At all."

The truth feels unfamiliar in his mouth because he's so practiced at ignoring it and lying around it. They are the Evans family and everything is great. Their perfect life is what others aspire to. Hell, they even have a white picket fence.

"She hated leaving New York, that's probably when it started. I was, what? Ten or eleven? Oregon, she was not a fan of the west coast. Said it felt "disloyal." LA didn't help, of course. But moving here, yeah. It was only a matter of time." It feels good to get it off his chest, even though Troy can't hear him. Or maybe especially because he can't. With a dramatic sigh he falls back against the wall and waits for the princess to awaken. Somehow, he feels lighter.

Night time in Albuquerque is very serene. Crickets chirp softly in the background but mostly he hears Troy breathe. It isn't like the silence between he and his mother. This is comfortable silence, the kind shared between romance protagonists. And it's nice.

Or it is until Troy wakes up with a start.

"Oh my god, Ryan!" he exclaims. His eyes are roughly the size of saucers and his pupils have taken over. "They won't let me in! AND I REALLY NEED FRUIT!"

He says it with such conviction that Ryan almost overlooks the ridiculous nature of the statement.

"You need...fruit?" Ryan is a complete loss for words. This was not at all what he was expecting. Like most outsiders, he assumes that part of being a star athlete is staying on the straight and narrow, taking drug tests and denouncing alcohol. TIME magazine even told him so.

Now that Troy is awake Ryan can tell that he reeks of alcohol. And, he can't believe he didn't notice this earlier, he's also soaking wet.

"Troy, why are you wet?" In response Troy scoots closer and wraps his arms around Ryan's waist, pressing his damp chest into Ryan's previously dry shorts. It feels gross but he doesn't have the heart to push him away.

"Pool's closed," Troy mumbles into Ryan's stomach, snuggling closer.

"Okay, come on, Bolton. We have to get you home. This is not comfortable." Ryan tries to squirm away but Troy just clamps on tighter.

"Can't go home. Dad thinks I'm at Chad's," is probably what Troy means to say but it comes out as a garbled mess of sound. But Ryan gets the message. Having spent the last four summers at drama camp he knows enough about this to see that Troy is deteriorating fast and staying out here much longer isn't a great idea.

"Can you walk? Because I was serious, I'm not carrying you." he says, pulling Troy to his feet a little more roughly than necessary. To his credit, Troy manages to stumble along beside Ryan without falling over. For the most part anyway. There are a few close calls involving cement barriers and shopping carts but eventually Troy collapses gracefully into the front seat.

"Dude, Ry. Let me drive," is the last intelligible thing he says before passing out, drool cascading down his chin. Being the fantastic friend he is, Ryan snaps a picture.

All things considered, this has been a successful venture except that now Ryan has no idea where to transport the body. Back to Chad's house? He has no idea where Chad lives. To Troy's house? Troy would probably be mad and how would Ryan explain this to his father? Plus, Coach Bolton scares him. His own house?

Well, it's not like anyone is home to notice. Plus, he went shopping recently. Their fruit bowl is fully stocked so this must be fate.

* * *

><p>It takes a while but Ryan finally manages to stow Troy in the guest room, not that it was easy. There was the annoying fact that Troy was out cold, making him about twenty pounds heavier and rather unhelpful as he dragged the body upstairs. Now that he's on the bed, there is the whole clothing debacle. Should he or shouldn't he?<p>

He probably should. Troy is, after all, soaked to the bone.

Shoes and socks come off first as a sort of warm up for the main event. It takes some deep breathing exercises and an 'I'm not looking' mantra before he's ready. He yanks off Troy's sopping jeans and T-shirt, leaving him in clingy boxers and white wife beater. He decides this is all he can handle, pushes the body to the center of the bed and pulls the covers to his chin.

If he remembers correctly Troy is going to have one hell of a morning. He wonders out to the garage to find a bottle of Gatorade, the red kind, and then to the bathroom for a bottle of Aspirin. He leaves them both on Troy's nightstand, something his roommate taught him last summer.

Back in his own bed he tosses and turns until he's trapped in his own bedsheets. He's only been awake a few hours and is completely wired. Once he extricates himself he returns to the kitchen. He's happy to note that it smells like coffee and bleach again. There is no sign of his earlier encounter except the inescapable fact that his mother is probably on a plane by now. It's only been a few hours though, so the coffee is still hot. It is apparently the weekend of small favors.

Coffee in hand, he returns to his room with no hope of sleep. Feeling quite proud of himself, he sits at his desk and pulls out a pad of sticky notes and a black Sharpie pen. He has a terrible, wonderful idea.


End file.
